


Shipwrecked

by pipe kitten (Rayne11), Rayne11



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASOIAF Rare Pair Week, Castaways, Idk either man - someone had to, Iron Islands (Westeros), M/M, Rare Characters, Rare Pairings, book canon, deserted island, grerion?, greygane?, greyjoy rebellion era, mention of canon typical violence, thiz iz now a real ship, vicgor?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25981366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayne11/pseuds/pipe%20kitten, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rayne11/pseuds/Rayne11
Summary: Victarion's faith is dwindling, the Drowned God has sunk his ship and washed him ashore. He's been forsaken, abandoned, and he's going to die alone in this strange place. He can't hope to lose his life before his sanity though that is what seems to be happening.Another man washes ashore, but dying alone might’ve been better than this.Excerpt:'The enormous piece of driftwood beaches itself one night as Victarion lies awake. He pays it no mind. The Drowned God sends him lots of things, day in and day out. None that are helpful, yet.It is only in the morning when the groaning starts that he finds himself trudging to examine it, his sceptre tracing his path with its many fingers.“They call you the Mountain,” Victarion says to the hulking man trapped underneath it.'
Relationships: Victarion Greyjoy/Gregor Clegane
Comments: 11
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

_It’s not fair,_ Victarion thinks as he looks out at sea. At the ruins that were once his Iron Victory. The wood boards and metal that were once her hull, the golden kraken, her sails - all disappear. Engulfed by the sea till they're erased. 

He feels the gold sink inside him as he watches from miles away - the waves swallowing all he had piece by piece. Person by person. _What is dead may never die,_ he thinks or says or shouts. 

Knees sinking to the ground, sand eating at his fingertips, he wailes long and loud. Howls like a wolf and pounds his fists on the ground. 

_They are the Drowned God’s now. May they feast in his watery halls._

_It’s not fair,_ he thinks as the knowing crashes over him like a relentless tide. He’d have drowned too if he hadn’t been out of armour. If he hadn’t missed a signal and been washing up in a moment of false calm. 

Still, he can't bring himself to wish he’d have been with them. Not been the only one of his crew left alive. Can't bring himself to wish he’d known all their names. 

Dressed in tattered breeches and a wind worn tunic, he walks along the shoreline till the sand gives way to the rocks and the rocks rise up to form mountains. He mislikes them. Unfamiliar and cold, they made him feel farther from the sea than he is. 

Whether he returns to the spot on the beach he had washed up on, he couldn't say. What did it matter? He supposes. This is similar enough. 

At night under the stars, as he lies on the beach staring at nothing, staring _into_ nothing, he has never felt so alone. Lost on an island in the sunset sea, probably further west than any man has ever been, he realises just how little it all matters. In the face of the stars, as he looks the Storm God in the eye night after night, it doesn't even matter what ‘all’ is.

He wanders along the sea shore on burnt feet, dragging around some driftwood to anchor him. What does it matter? He thinks and drops it, resuming his walk - the world’s largest needle weaving through vines and bushes, streams and seas - only to be terrified into caution by some small sound or another. A hiss of a snake or caw of a bird, but mostly the deafening silence that flows through his veins despite all the noise around him. 

He knows what to do when shipwrecked, like any ironborn man worth his salt. He knows. _He does._.

He’s lost all sense of time, not knowing whether it is twilight or dawn until what follows is night or day. He sleeps for four hours or fourteen, he has no real way to tell, but why should it bother him? What did it matter after all? 

He eats fish he catches and drinks from the streams. He lets the sun scorch his body as his clothes lie drying in the sand. And he prays. Prays that his brother would send help, that he would somehow _know_. The Rebellion had failed, there is nothing more to do now but bend the knee, and wait for Baratheon’s word. 

Victarion hopes that amidst it all, Balon finds a way to send a ship, a boat, a raft. Hells he’d take a single twig at this point, so long as it takes him home. 

He doesn't get a twig after all. He gets a tree. The enormous piece of driftwood beaches itself one night as Victarion lies awake. He pays it no mind. The Drowned God sends him lots of things, day in and day out. None that are helpful, yet. 

It is only in the morning when the groaning starts that he finds himself trudging to examine it, his sceptre tracing his path with its many fingers. 

“They call you the Mountain,” Victarion says to the hulking man squirming like an eel. “Don’t they?”

He doesn't answer. “I’ve never seen a mountain trapped beneath driftwood before. And yet here you are.” He wants to laugh, but he seems to have forgotten how. Instead he lets his eyes roam free over the man's body, taking in hungrily the skin and flesh and blood. Grateful, to have another person to look at. To have anything to look at other than dirt, water and the sky. 

“Why are you struggling? It doesn’t matter,” he says, sitting down beside the man, who still doesn't stop his wriggling. “Don’t you see, it doesn’t matter?” he finds himself screaming. "Stop it, can't you see?"

“Shut up! _Shut up!”_ The Mountain cries, palms instantly pressed against his ears.

“Yes! Scream! Scream at it all and you’ll see. You’ll get nothing for it - but scream.” His throat finally remembers and he lets out a crass laugh. And gets a mouthful of sand and blood to show for it. 

Victarion roars, spitting out blood. “You kicked me. I tried to help you, you fool,” he seethes, rubbing his jaw. He hopes it isn’t broken. It would be hard to mend here. 

It isn’t. He knows it would’ve been if the Mountain’s leg wasn’t half trapped under the log and half buried in the sand. 

In a flash of rage, Victarion looks around for a rock to smash in the dog's skull with, but a large wave pushes him down. “It’s not fair!” Victarion cries to the sea, and his God, and the dog’s barking for silence. “Why would you send me _him_? Him of all people, tell me why?” 

He rinses his mouth with saltwater till it comes out clear. He has broken a tooth, way behind. It is fine. It won’t hold him back from his daily activities. 

Victarion leaves the dog, grunting and thrashing, and goes back to his post. It is what a generous man would call a tent. Three slender trunks tied at the top, covered with palm and coconut leaves to keep out the chill. A large, unlit bonfire.

He stays there till he gets hungry and then prowls through the rocky part of the beach for some clams. He has to walk past the dog to get there. Part of him wants to land a solid kick of his own but he doesn't. What good is it, kicking a man when he was down? No, he'd meet the Mountain on even ground. 

The barking is grating. It accompanies the storm but lingers long after it is gone. 

Finally it dissolves into yelps and whines until sleep or something like it finds either of them. 

But just before it does, the sound chips away at something inside, something Victarion didn't know he had.

Sometimes he goes to check. See if he has yet again become the only man on the island.

But no. The dog is still trapped as he was the first day. The log lies over his stomach and waist - the gentle, natural curve of the trunk is the only thing keeping it from crushing him. _We both should have died. Yet here we are._


	2. Chapter 2

By the fourth day, Victarion wakes up, suddenly afraid that the dog might die. That he'd be left alone is a prospect that scares him more than death. 

He fills up some stream water in the hollowed out coconut he uses for a waterskin and goes to see the only other man on the island. And when he runs his fingers through his washed hair and tucks his tunic in his breeches, it is so he could retain some civilized manner, nothing more. Iron men are still men, after all. 

"I brought you water," Vic says, his voice hoarse from disuse. He taps the dog gently on his calf to rouse him. "How did you manage to sleep like this?" Something tells him that unlike himself, the Mountain has never had trouble falling asleep after battle. And this is no less than a battle either of them has ever fought.

The dog makes a sound, somewhere between a whine and a whimper. Sand dusting the tips of his lashes and the sun reddened skin of his cheeks and nose. His eyes flutter open and immediately squeez shut. The sun hurts, Victarion reckons and moves to block it. 

The dog opens his eyes once he feels the shade. 

"Water." Vic holds up the coconut. 

The Mountain pushes himself up on his elbows, gaze fixed on Victarion. 

Still wary, he maintains a good distance between them as he hands over the coconut. 

He drinks like a dog, Victarion watches entranced as the man empties it in a matter of seconds. 

"I'll bring more," he finds himself saying. "Be glad of the rain. You'd be dead if it weren't for it." 

By his fourth trip fetching water, it occurs to Victarion to carry more than one coconut at the same time. And in one of the subsequent trips - he needn't empty them. Coconut water is far better than plain water for a dessicated man anyway.

Victarion finds himself, for once, grateful for being alone on the island. Well, almost alone. He knows how this would look to the iron islanders, his crew, his brothers, even his wife had she been alive. 

Stifling the bubbling thoughts, he drags the entire bunch, green and heavy, to the log. The dog watches with wide eyes and shuffles up into a more upright position, supported entirely by the muscles of his stomach. Victarion wonders how long he'd be able to stay like this. 

Soon enough, another problem presents itself. He holds the coconut up and can hear the water sloshing. With a heavy hand, Victarion bangs it against the log in an attempt to crack it.

The Mountain lets out a howl of pain, falling back as he covers his ears. 

Vic freezes.

"Does the sound hurt you?" 

No answer. 

Vic figures he may not have heard. He has his palms pressed against his ears, after all. "I said," he crouches and repeats, louder. "Does the sound hurt you?" 

Another strangled noise, then, "Shut up!" 

Backing away, Victarion decides to find a rock or something, but before he can move, the Mountain snatches the coconut from his hand and rips it in two. Vic traces with his gaze, the rivulets running down his chin and drenching his tunic. A faded grey that could have been black at one time, with three dogs on it on a yellow shield. 

"Where's your armour?" He asks, suddenly aware of its lack. 

The Mountain looks up. It gives Victarion some strange satisfaction that he had to. There aren't very many men the Mountain has to look up at. None unless they sit atop the Iron throne.

"No armour at sea. Or you drown." His voice is powerful and heavy. But somehow pained, like it is an effort to talk. 

"Not me. The Drowned God protects me." 

Victarion waits for him to say something, to challenge his beliefs, but he doesn't. He simply looks around, with an amused frown. And that is worse. 

“Say what you’re thinking, dog. But remember, you are at my mercy, so long as you are on my land.” 

The dog’s eyes burn with anger at being called one. “Your land, Greyjoy? It’s not-”

“These isles are a part of the Iron Islands. You will address me as Lord Captain." 

The mountain says not a word, merely finishes his drink and lies back down, eyes squeezed shut. 

Vic sits too, some distance away, and looks out at the sea. More and more thoughts buzz like flies in his mind. What if Balon never sends help? What if no one ever finds him? What if he is doomed to die here on this island where not even the Drowned God hears his prayers? What would Aeron say at this? A moment’s peril and Victarion’s faith is shaken? No! No, never. 

Having worked himself into agitation, he scrambles to stand. 

“Don’t go,” the Mountain says, eyes open, wide and shiny like a dog’s. 

Victarion sees him, perhaps for the first time. He is huge but his face shows he couldn’t be more than five and twenty. The grey of his eyes is rock to Victarion’s steel. 

That unsettles him more than he can account for. He's heard the tales of the sack of King’s Landing, seen the Mountain cut down men as easily as slicing butter. 

He has seen Sandor Clegane too, young as he is. Seen, on occasion, the rage that burns like coal in his eyes. 

Victarion has taken countless ships, led his men to victory, made thralls of merchants and their families. He’s never harmed a child, that he has not. 

He’s no kinslayer, either. I ought to kill him now, he thought. Ought to sacrifice him to the Drowned God. Maybe a sacrifice will appease him? Might be he sends a ship to save me? 

The plan is one with potential. Victarion heads back to his hut, ignoring the cries asking him to stay. 

He rummages amongst his scant gifts from the sea. A short sword, rusted in several places, with a blunt blade is the closest thing to an actual weapon he has. 

“This will have to do,” he says out loud. He feels like a greenboy for a moment. It has been years since he had held a sword this small. Might be he’d have a son one day who’d hold a sword like this. 

Victarion sharpens the blade on a slick rock by the stream. It isn’t whetstone, but it’ll have to do. Each footstep is heavier than the last. His mind rejects every thought, every sensation. He feels neither the burning sand beneath his feat nor the cool waves that claw at the wounds in his soles. 

The Mountain lies still. Is he dead? The thought is disturbing even though the sword in Victarion’s hand was meant to slice his throat open. 

He isn’t dead though, not yet at least. 

“Up.” Victarion tightens his grip on the hilt, as if to remind himself what it's there for. 

As the realisation dawns, the dog’s eyes widen in increments. Time slows as they both stare each other down. There’s fear there, Victarion notes. He wants to end it. For all he has done and will do, he has never been one to revel in suffering. 

The mountain struggles harder than he has ever before. He kicks the sand and lifts his waist trying to get the log off him. It’s working, Victarion observes, dimly. And I’m letting it. 

“ARGH!” the dog howls as the log comes crashing down on him after one particularly stellar effort to push it up. 

“Do that again,” Victarion blurts out. He lets the sword drop at his feet and crouches beside the Mountain. 

Before he can try and lift the logs, the dog snarls and pulls Victarion by his tunic. 

The wind knocked out of him, a sudden sharp pain shoots up in his chest. His cry is smothered by the hand pressing down on his mouth. Victarion tries to bite it. He flails, like a fish out of water, gasping for air. 

Even after days of starvation and injury, the strength of the man is apparent. Victarion is held down, his head in the clutches of a man who could snap his neck if he wanted to. But the Mountain is still trapped.

Pure instinct takes over him as he jams his fists at the dog. With a howl of pain he moves back. Turns over. Tumbling away, he puts some distance between them. Vic falls just out of the Mountain’s mammoth reach and spits out the sand and blood. He crawls, sand burning his hands, sun shining painfully in his eyes as he flips and lays on his back, trying to catch his breath. 

“You could’ve killed me,” he says at the sky. “You could’ve killed me!” 

Victarion thanks the Drowned God for his life. Had it not been for the driftwood and elements, 

the Mountain would be at his full strength. He’d have crushed Victarion’s skull in a matter of seconds. 

“You wanted to kill me,” the Mountain says, rage palpable in his voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoop \o/ thanks for reading! let me know what you think of this ship


	3. Chapter 3

_ The options are simple. Let the Mountain loose and run the risk getting bludgeoned in my sleep, or sacrifice him to the Drowned God and hope for a ship. _

A third choice is leaving him as he is. He’d die there or manage to free himself and Victarion would be back to square one again. 

Night comes early. The storm clouds brew in the distance and Victarion feels the urgency in his bones. He can't handle another bout of screams, can’t even handle the knowledge of them going on out of earshot. 

Rain is gentle right now. He goes to him yet again. The Mountain has moved some. One of his legs is bent awkwardly, stuck mid motion. He stares at the clouds on the horizon, with something akin to fear in his eyes. 

The sword is still where Vic had left it. It gleams where the rust is off, the blade peaks through sand. “I’ve come to call a truce,” he says, having made up his mind. 

The Mountain turns his head, brows knit. “Truce?” he says. His voice is weaker, and somehow hollowed. Like its echoing through a greenland castle corridor. 

“Yes. Who knows how long we have to stay here before someone finds us.” 

“Lord Tywin will send someone. He needs me,” the dog says. 

Victarion can’t help it. He laughs, long and loud. Maybe he really is losing his mind as its said men in isolation do. “No, he doesn’t.” 

“Yes, he does. I’m not abandoned like you.” his stone face is twisted in a grimace. “I’m the best commander he has ever had in his service. The strongest man ever to exist-”

“He’ll find ten more like you by the next high tide.”

The Mountain's eyes narrow. Slowly, dangerously. 

“I know because I’m a lord and a captain. First mates are always replaceable, no matter how good. And you are barely a cabin boy.” He pauses for a reaction that never comes. 

“I will help you and in turn you must give me your word, little as it's worth, to not attack me in any position where I cannot defend myself. If you want a fair fight, we will meet on even ground. One man against another. If you don’t then I will leave you here and let the Storm God take out his anger on you. You see the clouds on the horizon?” Vic points to the sea, darkening by the second. “It’s a matter of a few hours at most before they will be upon us. You will drown if I leave you here.” 

He’s gotten to the Mountain, Victarion can see it. The panic in his eyes and the frenzy which will strike any moment. 

“Do you accept?” Victarion says. He wants to reach forward his arm but there's a minimal amount of trust needed that he doesn’t yet have in the man he’s trying to save. 

“I accept.” 

“Swear on your gods.” 

“I swear by the Seven that are one, I shall meet you in open battle, enemies as we are, but as long as we are on this island, I shall not do you any harm.” 

“I swear the same, on the Drowned God,” Victarion says and reaches his hand down. They grasp each other's forearms. His grip is strong and firm. His hand engulfs Victarion's as Victarion’s does all the pretty maids he beds. 

  
  


It’s hard work. Victarion tries lifting the log by the center, by the edge, rolling it away, but it doesn’t budge. For all his apprehension about attempting a rescue, he hadn’t considered his efforts being rendered meaningless. The clouds move faster than he has ever seen. Even his trained eyes miscalculate. Another jolt of fear seizes him. He’s afraid of losing all that makes him himself. His experience, his heritage, his  _ name _ . 

Sweat rolls off him in beads despite the chilling breeze. “The Storm God is angry I lived,” he says and slumps down by the Mountain, eyeing the approaching guest. 

To his surprise, the dog laughs. It’s the first time he’s heard the sound and somehow it's worse than all the howling. “What?” Vic hisses. 

“The Gods aren’t real. And even if they were, they don’t give a rat’s arse about you.” 

“Do you know my name?” Vic asks. He’s in no mood for defending his beliefs against such filth. 

The Mountain is quiet for a while. “Greyjoy.” 

“Which one?”

“Who cares? Balon Greyjoy’s brother. The Captain of the Iron Fleet. The one who lost to Stannis.” 

“I did not lose. It’s the Gods- _I did not lose_.” He is about to change his mind about saving the dog. Leave him to his devices. Leave him to die. 

The Mountain grunts. “The battle isn’t over yet.” 

“It’s a war. It's a war for our freedom. It was the Targaryens we kneeled to, not Baratheons.” 

“It’ll be Lord Tywin you’ll kneel to now.” 

“You really are his mad dog, aren’t you.” 

The arm swings rapidly at him but Victarion catches it. And smiles. The Mountain wrenches his arm away but doesn’t make a move to strike again. “Why do you hate it so? Being called a dog? Your brother is the Hound is he not? With a dog shaped helm and manner to match?” 

  
  


+

It seems that for once in their lives, brute strength isn’t cutting it. The storm is upon them, rain pours in torrents but the thunder hasn’t begun yet. Soon, though. 

“Are you going to run off? Hide from your Storm god?” the Mountain says. He lies flat on his back, swallowing as if bracing himself for battle. 

“He isn’t my god. He’s the enemy of my God. I worship the-”

“Spare me your pious bleating,” he croaks. “Don’t care who you worship. He doesn’t care either. Or you wouldn’t be here with a godless man as me.”

Victarion can’t help but consider it. “But you are trapped and I am not. The gods know.” 

“Know what?” the Mountain frowns. 

“Everything.” 

There's a glimmer of fear in the Mountain’s eyes as he looks skyward. 

“Won’t be able to get you out in time before the Storm gets here. How long has the sound hurt you?” 

The mountain is surprised. He opens and closes his mouth wordlessly.  _ Who is the sheep now? _ Vic thinks. 

“Ever since I can remember,” he says at last. “It got worse after the pups were born.” 

“Pups?” 

A grunt. 

“Real pups or you mean your brother?” 

“Screaming, screaming, all day, all night, everyday. Mother wanted a maester but the Citadel wouldn’t send one soon. Father was embarrassed to go to Lord Tywin. Embarrassed of me. He gave me milk of the poppy.” 

“I’ve seen poppies around. You could try and make it again if you know how.” 

“Worth trying.” 

“Do you know my given name?” Vic asks.

“No.” 

+

“Try to sleep,” Vic says. He pushes the hair out of the Mountain’s eyes, brushes the sand off his face. “It’ll take a few hours to blow over.” 

“You can tell just by looking at the clouds?” There's something like awe in his voice and something like pride in Victarion’s chest. 

“Every captain worth his salt can. I’ve been at sea my whole life. I swam before I walked.” 

“I’ve had a sword in my hand ever since I can recall,” he says. “I can’t sleep through the storm.” 

“I can wrap something around your head,” Vic says. He makes to leave for his hut, see if he’s got scrap fabric or something. An iron grip grabs his hand.

“Don’t. What if you’re not back in time. I don't want to weather it alone.” 

Vic sits back down. There’s a slim chance of finding anything of use anyway. 

When the thunder starts, it's Victarion who wishes he had something wrapped around his head. 

The Mountain screams, wails like a widow, thrashes about. If what he’d heard from a distance was unnerving, this is a flaying knife to his chest. 

Vic watches the man writhe helplessly in agony. His sword is a few feet away. “Should I make an end?” he asks. He doesn’t want to but he doesn’t want to bear witness to this either. Vic thinks he will lose his mind either way. 

" _ Don’t want die _ ,” the Mountain chokes out. 

Victarion moves and places the man’s head in his lap. He presses his palms firmly over the Mountain’s ears. The thunder stops for a few moments. 

He is heavy in Victarion’s arms. Limp with pain. 

“Don’t move,” Vic tells him over the sounds of the crashing waves and pouring rain. Water flows down Vic’s head and sharp nose onto the Mountain’s neck where he lies. “I’m going to try something.” 

He takes a fistful of sand and holds it right upto the Mountain’s ear. In a steady rhythm, he runs his thumb against his other fingers, grinding the grains of sand gently. They make a deep sound, soft and uniform. 

It had proven enough for Victarion in his younger years. When he’d hide in the caves on the beach from Euron, after thrashings from his father, and the laughter from other children. Boys who grew up only to mop the floorboards in his fleet.

He’d sit in the caves but the silence scared him, and the wind through the gaps in the caves. The sea sounded not like the sea but like the roaring of some great big monster. Someone had once told him it was the Drowned God speaking to him, and Victarion didn’t know whether to be terrified or soothed. 

The sand was comforting. Always. When he lay on it hurt, when he’d been drowned and felt the sand again after returning. It had been home and help.

It seemed to help the Mountain too. The sound would diminish the erratic water and sky. The land would relieve the pain.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m cold.” 

“Me too.” 

“That doesn’t help me.” 

“It’s not meant to.” 

“Bugger you. Can't wait to get out of this place." 

“If your Gods wanted you too, you would have.” 

“May be that's true.”

“True enough. All we’ll get here.” 

“You’re mad, that doesn’t make sense.” 

“May be so. You and me, both.” 

“And the Gods who made us.” 

“Such blasphemy from you, Greyjoy?” 

+

“You think there's a sun god?”

“Bugger your sun god, get this thing off me.”

+

“I’m going to see if i can make a lever of some sort.”

“Be quick about it.”

“Know your place, I am Lord Captain.” 

“You are slow.” 

+

“Do it.” 

“The blood will rush to your leg. It will hurt. A lot.”

“Do. It.”

“Try not to scream, I’ve had enough of your screaming for a lifetime.” 

“WILL YOU SHUT YOUR TRAP AND DO IT!” 

+

Water pools under Victarion’s feet. He’s been standing so long it feels like he’s rooted to the ground. He catches his breath and waits for the Mountain to catch up to his. Shiny droplets have begun forming on the leaves of the  scraggly bush by the beach. Vic has never seen dew form, never stayed still long enough unless waiting out an enemy. His life seems to have been one endless moment with never a break to catch up. He dreads his own mind, the memories that catch upto him everytime he closes his eyes. He wonders if the mountain feels like that too. I ought to ask his name if i’m saving him, he thinks but doesn’t.  Best not to get attached to anything, start thinking of him a friend or at the very least an ally, before they have to kill each other in open battle . 

It’s a hollow idea though.  Truth is everything he’s ever known, all the people, all the places, everything that has ever happened to him, seem like it happened to someone else, somewhere far . 

Victarion feels new but haunted. 

“Done?” He asks. 

The Mountain nods and winces as he braces himself for yet another attempt. He’s weak after days of being stuck but his strength is still much more than most men could ever dream of. 

Vic places his foot on the makeshift lever he’s fashioned out of a large bundle of slender trunks. It took him hours to gather them till they’d be strong enough to not snap under the weight of the tree. And hours more to wedge it. 

It had taken every bit of strength he had, and more from the Mountain. 

He pushes down holding on to the log for support. Muscles screaming in protest, worked beyond their limit, he groans as he pushes down with all he’s got. 

There's a dull creak, followed by the Mountain’s writhing. 

“Quick!” Vic shouts, “I can’t do this much longer.” He’s pulling himself too while pushing the wretched thing down, trying. Trying  desperately . “Fast!” 

With one last cry, the Mountain manages to squeeze out and drags himself backwards. Vic waits till he’s a safe distance away before letting go. He staggers backwards and falls into the sand. 

A mad laugh escapes him, loud and free. 

“Done,” he breathes, before laughing again. 

“Done,” the Mountain agrees. He’s laughing too, different than before. This one holds some life in it. “You did it.”

Vic turns his head to look at him, watches the rise and fall of his chest in time with his own. It feels like a century has passed since they were at each other’s throats, though it’s  barely been a day. He gets up finally, and drains an entire coconut before getting back to the man.  Boy would be more apt , he thinks. Though Vic isn’t much older, it feels like the eyes of the man lying in front of him  are frozen in time. 

Victarion offers him a hand. The boy regards him with suspicion, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. It ticks Vic off, that he’d do this. After he’d saved his life many times over, held him while he was in pain, stayed when he could’ve left. 

Patience is not a virtue Victarion can call his own. He is about to leave when desperate fingers grab onto him. Nails dig into his skin and it's the sweetest hurt he has ever known.  Is this what it's like to save someone?  Truly save someone? 

Oh, he has fished plenty of sailors out of rough seas - well, his men have.  Mostly sailors of the ships they were raiding. He’s made thralls of them later. 

The rest have been his own men tossed overboard by the Storm God. 

The first rays of the sun light up his face. Grey eyes, red rimmed, cracked lips, forming a smile. The sky is a vision. 

The pinks and blues have begun bleeding into each other, like waves where two oceans meet. 

Victarion returns the smile. 

It’s dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think Vic should trust Gregor now that he's saved him? Lannisters always pay their debts, but do their retainers do as well?


End file.
